I uncovered my love for poetry after reading from the likes of Shakespeare (though it took forever to understand few words of his work), Maya Angelou, Akosua Busia, and many others. The above was the first poem I wrote. Guru became my abled aide. He was my friend, protector and confidant. He got me the best teacher I could ever wish for. A petite but strong woman who was a teacher, a great teacher! She taught me everything, from the needed Maths to the loving Arts, I think her love for poetry greatly influenced me because of my motherly love towards her. Her name was Ms. Barwuah. It had been a year in my independent struggle as a woman of the night. I worked at night, slept till noon, met my teacher from three to six every evening except weekends, rested for over four hours and hit the road again. I rested and dined with God on Sundays as usual.

The night existed humbly like a toddler crawling playfully around. I, on the other hand, sat on a table with my mild brandy in hand. Every sip reminding me of home and how my parents would disapprove. This particular night, I missed them for some uncanny reasons. I was fifteen, worked in half payment to my boss, slept with my friend and bodyguard for pleasure and protection and slept with unknown men for a fee. I knew my parents would kill themselves if they knew all these. I felt out of place and thought of going back to base without working. “I would go back, back to Asuntreso when I was well to do” always ringing in my thoughts. “I would go back, back to Asuntreso with class, I would go back…”

“Hello Miss, care if I join you?”

Well, that jolted me back from my sad and determined thoughts. I looked and saw a white man standing and waiting for my permission. All thoughts of boycotting work that night vanished. I finally have the pleasure of doing a white man for crying out loud. I beckoned him to sit down. After our usual chat, he took me to his house. What seemed like a beautiful apartment in a very remote area. On reaching there, I felt something was not right. The illuminated lights and scary images of nude women, the chilly ambience and thick window curtains that seemed to be hiding some sort of monsters which promised to creep out at the next step, his shinning eyes that seemed so delighted like he has caught an easy prey and the fact that he took my bag, searched frantically through, took out my dummy phone and smashed it on the floor. I excused myself to his bathroom and called Guru (with the real phone which was fastened to my waist beads upon Guru’s suggestion after thief’s made away with my first phone) to give him directions to where I was. I left the phone on in one of his drawers and stepped back into the room after his loud call.

When I re-entered the room, I was asked at gun point to lead into another room. Fear overwhelmed me. In the room were equipment I had never seen before. Metals hanging, a well laid bed with red and black sheets, red bulb, a huge and scary dog which would not stop barking on seeing us and pictures of women being molested. A particular picture caught my attention, a picture of a woman whose private part was being fucked with a knife by a white hand in a mess of blood. I turned to have a proper look at my client’s hand but he slapped and tied me up, stripped me naked and started whipping me brutally with a metal rod. I felt I had reached my end. Something told me I would not leave that room alive. Every pain harvested by his planting whip in me, a form of bitterness and rage. I killed him ten times over in my head while he whipped me senseless.

After getting tired of whipping, he opened my legs to have access to my clitoris and bit into the two pleasure junction like a vampire. Then he sucked the blood that oozed to his satisfaction. He then took out a knife (which terrified me to no end) and gave me little cuts around my buttocks, cuts which let out cries of blood from my veins. I did not cry, I did not even whimper. I saw the faces of my parents through the pain and felt I had no right to shed a tear. I looked at him with hatred to his shock as he slapped and booted me, handcuffed and brutally fingered me into fisting. I could have sworn he stirred my intestines like banku at the juncture of porridge and pastehood with his huge fist powered by the stem of his hand. It was the first most brutal thing I had ever seen and felt. I realised Mojo’s was a mere scratch. Then he untied my weak self after breaking my arms with a huge bat, tied my sore hands behind me and put me on the bed in a doggy style. He held my hair and pulled it like a non living rope needed to hold firm boxes of precious goods all the while slapping and hitting and taunting with horrible words, “Cry out bitch! Let me hear your pain! Wince you whore! Let me taste your tears!” Then he felt my eyelids, slap me hard to induce tears and licked it. He licked and bit my rear many times until I urinated on myself. I felt him drinking the urine and asking for more, something that terrified me the more.

He raped me with his small stick, which I could barely feel after his fist while his dog barked loudly in protest of not being freed. I thought I had seen it all until he let the dog loose. The dog bit my thigh, scratched my face until it was placed in between my thighs and helped to penetrate. There, I broke down for even in my wildest dreams or nightmares, I had never heard of a dog sleeping with a human being. Watching myself in the big mirror being fucked by a dog reduced me to dust. I cried as the dog’s rod, which was bigger than its owner’s, shacked me in the longest and worst ways possible. The pain therein, lied in my shame and not the act. There I was, being degraded to a sex slave for a dog, a dog for crying out loud! All the while, Ken, as he told me he was called, kept hitting me, as he shivered, breathed heavily and orgasmed loudly in multiplications. I was devastated. I had great respect and love for white men. To me, they were flawless, all they possess were brains, money and power. I felt my ironical thoughts hitting me hard and repeatedly on my face. I saw a different aspect of my weak thoughts and remembered Shakespeare’s quote by Ms. Barwuah “There is no art to find the mind’s construction in the face”

There, I felt I had paid for every wrong I had done on earth. I was about to bite my tongue in suicide when I heard faint footsteps. Amazing how only I heard it. I cried out louder than before because a voice in my head told me it was Guru and some of his gang members.

“Yeah, cry louder baby! Cry louder bitch! Cry louder whore! You’re getting what you deserve baby! We have more time baby! That second hole needs a fucking baby! Mega! Fuck that thing harder!”

Ken repeatedly echoed in absolute pleasure. He was knocked from the back, the dog, Mega, was shot in the head, that was all I remember from that night. I woke up four days later in the worst state possible. Mimi was seated right next to me, her eyes a bulging red. Guru came immediately after being called. His face, a mask of worry and relief. He told me to snap out of the mood and heal because he had Ken tied, waiting for me to exact my revenge. I thought I had never heard anything so relieving. In two days, I was well, I was treated for tetanus, stitched up for the deep wounds and told I would require plastic surgery for some of the marks. I was not perturbed.

I saw Ken tied to a pole in the junkyard beneath the cultist building. I thought to slap him at first but decided on a karma spree. I had no dog to deal with him but I sure had a knife. The shock on his face gave me every pleasure I needed. I thought to shove live fire in his anal hole, then thought it painless, I thought to cut his man thing into tiny pieces as the guys make him watch, but that too sounded too light. I stood there, as the cheeks of the sharp knife cuddle my palms, watched deeply into his eyes as they shivered in fear, his cheeks, a blushing mess, and started my game of revenge.

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Published by amoafowaa

Just a simple Ghanaian trying to find the best in our society. I may be fun, I may be interesting, I may be funny, I may even be foolish or intelligent, but it is all based on the mood in which you find yourself. I believe our minds make us who we are. Know that, pain, no matter its 'unbearability', is transient. Unburden or delight yourself for a while in my writings please. And all corrections, advice and opinions are welcome. Know that you are the king, queen or royal on this blog. :)
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